"Navy Pier traffic fines bureau!" I exclaimed. "They have a free
parking lot there."
"That's good, for the car," said Celia, "but risky for us." She
thought. "The Art Institute. They have a private lot and we're members."
"Ridiculous!" I started to say, then checked myself. "That's good.
That's cultural. The cops would never think we'd go looking at
pictures."
There would be people there, a crowd in which we could lose ourselves.
A big building where we could remain all day, if necessary, without
attracting suspicion. A place where I could think. I desperately needed
to think.
"I don't want to go to the Art Institute," Freddie whined. "I want to
go home."
Celia tried to comfort him. "Mother wants to go home too, dear one,
but we can't go home just now."
We sure can't, I thought grimly. I maneuvered past the petal-shaped
peak of Tribune Tower with its banner--100% COMPETITION MEANS 100%
AMERICAN, past the upper stories of the Prudential Building ("WE'RE
COMPETING--ARE YOU?"), past the squat old Bible Federation building
(COMPETER, REMEMBER ST. PETER!), and at last settled with a sigh behind
the museum.
"I want to go home," Freddie whimpered, his eyes starting to tear
again. He was a thin, rather bony little boy, with light brownish eyes
like Celia's, and a forceful jaw that was quivering now at the point of
a sob.
Celia caressed his curly brown hair. "We're going to spend the entire
day together, darling. We're going to look at some wonderful pictures."
I was irritated, but I guess you can't expect too much understanding of
a kid.
We entered the building from the rear, parking lot entrance. The
Art Institute was one of those wild, non-geometric creations of the
Twenty-first century reconstruction period. It was a flat, one-storied
building. The outside was partially circular, with a pearly transparent
roof. Inside it formed a spiral, with galleries partitioned off like
the chambers of nautilus shell. At the eye of the spiral stood a small
sunken garden and tea room.
I looked at my watch. Ten-fifteen. "We can stay here until five, if
need be," I told Celia. "Don't leave the building until I return."
"Where are you going?" Celia was calm outwardly. Only her eyes
registered alarm.
"To see my lawyer. Then to the office. Then to the bank. I have a hunch
that ten thousand won't be enough for our present needs."
"Bart, I--"
"Let's not discuss it now. First I want to find out how we stand
legally."
I patted Freddie's cheek. "Bye, son. I'll try to get back in time for
lunch with you and mother."
I strode off, pausing at the main entrance to call the law offices of
Devron, Beach and Feldman. Beach was my man and he was in. I hailed a
coptercab and we lumbered over to the gold-black, ellipsoid Richmond
Building opposite City Hall.
Beach was a Top Competitor, a slim, trim, fit, fighting individual with
graying black hair, and a smiling suntanned face underscored by hard
lines of determination. He was humorless, busy and abrupt in all his
dealings, but he'd never yet lost a case for me.
"I have to be in court in ten minutes, Bart. Can you give it to me
briefly?"
"I don't know if I can. There are so many aspects. To begin with, I
assaulted a man. Knocked him unconscious."
"Government official? Top Competitor?"
"No, just a private school principal."
"Injure him badly?"
"I don't know. He was still out when I left."
Beach's eyes flickered with surprise.
"You're not a violent type. He must have provoked you?"
"Called my son non-competitive."
Beach dismissed the matter with a gesture. "You've nothing to worry
about." He paused, his shrewd eyes surveying. "Is that all?"
"Unfortunately not." I was ashamed to tell the whole story, and
I've told Beach some pretty raw ones in the past without flinching.
"In effect, I've defied a court order concerning my son. Obstructed
justice, you might say."
"Leave the legal definitions to me," said Beach tersely. "Tell me what
you did."
"Well, the principal was turning my son Freddie over to some guy from
the Special Training and Re-Education School. Without any advance
notice. Just bang! Like that. Called Celia and me in this morning to
tell us. As though it were already an accomplished fact. Well, I knew
it was illegal on his part. Imagine that! Taking a kid away from his
parents for five years! So I snatched up Freddie and left him with
Celia in a safe place and came directly to you. Beach, I want to fight
this. I want you to take a law book and beat the city's brains in!"
Beach stood up. He would not look me in the eye, but the hard lines on
his face showed up like steel cables.
"I won't touch the case. You'll have to find someone else."
A wave of shock and fear surged through my veins. "Beach, you're the
best man in the city! You've got to take it!"
"I couldn't win. No one could. You're in trouble, Bart. You'd better
hand over your son to the school." He was thinking out loud. "Plead
emotional upset on your part. It's a terrible thing for a father, a Top
Competitor, to be told he has a non-competitive son. You momentarily
lost control of yourself. Bring him to the school voluntarily. Say
you thrashed him within an inch of his life. Say you've been too
busy competing to pay much attention to your son's upbringing. But
now you're turning him over to the school, and you want them to
indoctrinate him thoroughly in the principles of democracy.
"You'd have a scandal, of course, but people would sympathize with you.
Applaud your resoluteness.
"Yes, you would get off that way. I still couldn't handle the case,
naturally, but I can recommend someone."
"Beach," I said firmly, "I won't give the boy up."
He was silent for a moment. "Then you're ruined. You're a fugitive from
justice. Your only hope is in Australia."
That was a slap in the face. "Australia!" I shouted. "That crummy
socialist state? That shlub society? No sir, I'm staying right here, in
the free competitive world!"
Beach looked ostentatiously at his watch. "You'll have to excuse me.
I have a case in court. A murder case, where I can do my client some
good."
He picked up his briefcase and went to the door, and stood there
courteously showing me out. "I don't imagine I'll be seeing you again,
Bart. Take a lawyer's parting advice. Don't go home. Don't go to your
office. Put your family on the next ship for Australia." He put his
hand on my shoulder, adding, not unkindly, "I also advise you to leave
this building quickly. You realize that I must report you to the
police."
* * * * *
I free-fell down the elevator shaft, stopping at the mezzanine rather
than the ground floor. There was a balcony and staircase overlooking
the main entrance. I could see a policeman loitering at the doorway. I
had no reason to believe Beach had immediately made his report. Even if
he had, was it likely the police could reach the scene sooner than it
took me to drop thirty-eight stories? Nevertheless, there the cop was.
I went back to the elevator, rode the updraft to the roof landing. A
police ship was idling over the Richmond Building. Coincidence. I saw a
taxi drop his fare only twenty feet away, and I wanted desperately to
hail the cab, but I couldn't take the chance. I remained for a minute
by the doorway. The police ship also lingered.
I asked a building employe where the freight elevator was. He pointed
the direction, and I stripped off my suit jacket and folded it
around my waist beneath my shirt. Then I rolled up my shirt sleeves
and stepped into the down-shaft. I hit bottom two floors below
street-level. There was a clerk in a receiving room.
"Has some office furniture come in for 1108?" I asked in a shlub accent.
"Nothin' yet," said the clerk.